


The Prince and the Pauper

by benedictcumberlongpond, WrenAndPoppy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Embarrassment, M/M, Panties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 04:37:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5234372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benedictcumberlongpond/pseuds/benedictcumberlongpond, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrenAndPoppy/pseuds/WrenAndPoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian and Blackwall’s banter is playful - rude, cutting - yes, those things as well. When Dorian pushes too far, Blackwall isn’t opposed to teaching him a lesson. </p><p>The alternate title for this work is "The Fuckbarn" and that should tell you anything you were confused about. Collab with wrenseroticlibrary.tumblr.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prince and the Pauper

**Author's Note:**

> Another collaboration piece with my one true love, Wren. We hope you enjoy this!

The Emerald Graves was an oppressive maze of greenery and heat and insects. Between the knots and gnarls of trees climbing from the ground and the sticky, ever-present humidity, Dorian spent an invariable amount of time counting his breaths and wondering why the Inquisitor had thought _him_ a suitable companion for this particular misadventure.

Sera seemed to be reveling in the challenge the trees represented, somersaulting and leaping from mossy roots to uneven ground, cackling madly as she ran ahead, just in front of the Inquisitor. Did she even notice the bugs? Were they scared to land on her? Dorian couldn’t say. Lavellan, too, was enjoying himself far too much, his sure elven feet stepping easily through the brush, leaping up rocky inclines and gripping vines as they made their way towards another fade rift. Like the damn place was as good as home.

 _Bloody animals,_ that’s what the two of them were. Dorian huffed as he struggled to keep pace with the two cheerful elves. No _civilized_ creature could find this planty buggy muddy nonsense agreeable.

There was one solace, though, and it came uncharacteristically in the form of Blackwall.

The big Warden’s steady puffing, his heavy feet hitting the ground heavily and without certainty, stumbling every now and then on an exposed rock or camouflaged branch… it all gave Dorian the pleasing confirmation that at least he wasn’t alone in his suffering. Blackwall ran at the same pace as Dorian, bringing up the rear of their party and cursing almost constantly, making Dorian grin with unsuppressed schadenfreude for every rock his feet missed that Blackwall’s would inevitably catch, another _fuck_ dropping from his lips.

They crested the hill, and before them stood a rift. It pulsed hot and green and wrong, a sickly tear in the fabric of reality that set Dorian’s hair on end no matter how many times he saw the blasted things. He could feel the violence of it vibrating down in his gut, through his chest, through the magical sixth sense that every mage possessed. The Inquisitor was already lashing out with magic at the demons materializing, a wraith blasted almost immediately into green ooze and smoke, a shade’s leathery skin punctured with Sera’s countless arrows.

“Fasta Vass,” Dorian hissed to himself, casting a quick barrier before throwing as much fire as he could towards the nearest shade.

The fight was quick, the Inquisitor closing the rift with an open hand and a glowing ribbon of energy, leaving the party panting and sticky. The fight hadn’t been particularly difficult, but Dorian was sweating like they’d just fought off an army. Blasted humidity. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking sweat from his face and wishing for the rune-cooled baths of Minrathous.

“How do you get your hair to do that, Dorian?” Blackwall’s voice was sharp and taunting from across the clearing. “With magic?”

Dorian bit the inside of his cheek as he straightened, walking back to the party with sure, swaying steps.

“With proper hygiene and grooming,” he replied, cocking a sharp eyebrow at the Warden as he brushed past. “Maybe all three of you should get acquainted.”

“Ok, you two.” The Inquisitor laughed, looking ahead to where Sera had already disappeared. “We’ll set up camp near here.”

Dorian nodded, shooting one last look over his shoulder to Blackwall. The man’s face was darkened, eyes narrowed as they considered the Tevinter Mage. It was all of the standard irritation and scorn that Dorian always sought to elicit from the targets of his sharp wit, but void take him, the Warden _could_ scowl like a grizzled bear when he tried.

Dorian was reminded, suddenly, of his Circle tutor. The way he had stared with brazen disappointment anytime Dorian showed up to tutelage hungover, or with love bites marring his neck.

That look meant one thing: _we will talk about this later._

Dorian could never resist that look, could never resist pushing just a little further than he should. It always drove his Circle tutor mad.

“If you wear that face too long, it’ll stick like that,” he murmured to Blackwall, too quietly for the rest of the party to hear. He shot the man a smirk. “Or… perhaps it already has.”

Blackwall huffed, shaking the demon ooze off his sword before sheathing it. “That mouth’s gonna get you in trouble,” he rumbled back warningly. He hefted his shield onto his back with a grunt, giving Dorian one more long, assessing look. “ … Or perhaps it already has.”

The man walked away, which was just as well, because Dorian’s cocky smile was getting awfully shaky.

 _Shit._ He’d always had the worst crush on his Circle tutor.

—-

The journey back to Skyhold took two full days, both of which Dorian spent at the front of the party, resolutely ignoring the Warden and attempting to hold coherent conversation with Sera. (And a fool’s errand that was.) He hated sending the message that Blackwall had somehow won their little exchange, but…

… Blackwall had definitely somehow won.

Something in that look, that warning scowl, rough around the edges and unhindered by the courtly etiquette Dorian was used to… it had shaken him, made him look at Blackwall differently. He hated to admit it, but Blackwall’s words kept ringing around his head.  
__  
“That mouth’s gonna get you in trouble.”  
  
It put a familiar itch under his skin, something old and primal that made his cheeks heat and his stomach drop. It was an itch that said he _wanted_ to be in trouble.

Dorian might have called it attraction… if Blackwall wasn’t an unwashed commoner with horrific manners and a terrible beard. That just wasn’t his type. Dorian had a taste for finer things, expensive things, and in this case, “things” with fancy clothes and fancy wine and carefully maintained facial hair and velvet beds to fuck him in.

He was pretty sure that Blackwall slept in that barn he always hung out in.

Dorian was glad to be back in Skyhold, away from the forced interaction. It wasn’t as if he was never going to speak to Blackwall again, it was simply that… he would wait until his head was clear. Until he could properly sass the man without getting those strange little tingles in his belly. 

As soon as Dorian got back, he bathed for an hour straight, replacing the water and reheating it with basic spells and enchantments, applying his lotions and oils, washing his hair and trimming his mustache. Rinsing away the gross, sticky, muddy, buggy, green miasma of the Emerald Graves.

He was clean – _more_ than clean. He was ethereal and perfect, shining and nice-smelling, chiseled like one of those silly statues with the stern faces, and far more handsome. He was, most importantly, far too beautiful and important to be developing sexual feelings for hairy brutes with thick, uneducated accents and even thicker beards.

He sat back in his plush settee, flicking open a compendium of Orlesian Theatre from where he had left it and beginning to read. Books, velvet, the cozy comfort of Skyhold’s walls… all was right in the world.

Dorian yawned, shifting in his seat, the warmth of the afternoon sun making him drowsy. Yes, _this_ was where he was supposed to be.

—-  
_  
The wind was driven out of him as he was thrown against the wall, face-first. Rough hands grabbed his hair and his hip, rude and possessive, manhandling him like he was a toy to be used. There was a thick, heavy thigh between his legs, forcing them open, and an unmistakable hardness pressed against his ass. Dorian couldn’t do anything but shudder in his assailant’s grip, whimper against the rough wall. There was the whisper of a beard on Dorian’s bared neck, and a thickly accented voice squirming in his ear._

 _“Not so powerful now, are you, mage?” Blackwall snarled._  
  
Dorian awoke with a gasp. A thin sheen of sweat covered his body, heat rising off his skin, his heart racing, his pants too tight. He thought for a moment he was still in the Emerald Graves, crammed into a muggy tent with a hard floor, but he forced himself to take in his surroundings. Velvet against his back, cool mountain air sneaking through the open window behind him. Books and unlit candles all around him. Night had fallen, moonlight glowing outside.

Dorian swallowed and hurriedly pulled an open book onto his lap, concealing his excitement as he looked around the library. There was no one, and the candles had long since burned out. Even the rotunda beneath, where Solas seemed to sleeplessly work, was darkened and empty, or at least silent.

Dorian rubbed his eyes, standing and finding a new candle, lighting it with a flick from his fingers and a whispered incantation. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to clear his thoughts.

… He’d just had a sex dream. About _Blackwall._

Dorian glanced out the window and frowned. He had a full view of the Skyhold courtyard from his perch, and he could see one solitary figure walking the grounds.  
_  
Of course,_ his brain supplied as he spotted the darkness of a thick beard. Blackwall was walking down the steps from the tavern, heading back towards his barn.

“I’ll be a nug’s nanny,” Dorian swore under his breath. He could no longer deny it. He was attracted to a man who _literally_ slept in a barn.

A dirty, smelly barn, full of gross barn-y things like hay and pitchforks and horses.

… and rough, wooden walls that a man could be thrown against, pinned against while he squirmed and moaned.

“Fasta Vass,” Dorian whispered, and yet his feet turned away from the window and he ran for the stairs. The library disappeared behind him and he was racing down the stony corridor, through Solas’s empty rotunda before he pushed open the doors and stepped into the main hall of Skyhold.

The throne sat at the end, massive and unnecessarily sharp. Here in the hall there were a few lingering people, even at this time of night. Dorian huffed and tried to compose himself, wondering vaguely if he had the look of someone who was about to make a wretched life choice. No one gave him a second glance. He knew that if he pushed open that door near the throne that Josephine would be sitting at her desk, tirelessly writing with intent eyes and a lip between her teeth.

Dorian wasn’t heading that way, though. He walked down the hall and through the huge, wooden doors, out into the frigid night air. He shivered once, the heat from his arousal-warmed body instantly melting away in the crisp air. He considered running all the way back up to the library to grab a cloak, but… Dorian huffed and began leaping down the stairs into the courtyard. No. He was certain that if he went back up, some better sense would overtake him and he wouldn’t come back down.

Dorian passed the combat training area, the Tavern where he could distantly hear Iron Bull’s rowdy voice, leading a bar full of other drunk voices in a randy bar song. Something about lusty stablehands. Dorian shook his head and tried not to think about barns, his pace quickening as he reached the stairs and began the descent, forcing himself to be careful until he reached the bottom, jumping down the last two steps and landing on the grass on firm feet.

Blackwall had almost reached the barn now, Dorian could see, and there was no sway to his walk – not drunk then.

Dorian bit his lip, freezing there and wondering what on earth he was doing.

Blackwall turned.

He seemed unsurprised to see Dorian across the courtyard, the lone figure against a backdrop of stone, framed by the huge stone archway that lead between the main castle and Cullen’s office.

Dorian fell still, in a strange and silent stand-off as Blackwall stared. The candlelight flickered against his face, and his breath steamed in the cold air.

After a moment’s pause, Blackwall’s grey eyes broke away from Dorian’s, and he turned back towards the barn. Dorian let out a long breath, rubbed his temples, and decided he was going to go back to his quarters, climb into bed, and forget about the Warden.

A sudden glow of firelight caught his eye, and he realized that Blackwall had lit the brazier in the barn, casting a warm yellow glow out of the doors. Across the fire, the man was staring at Dorian, and then with a low voice that carried across the yard, he asked, “Are you coming, or not?”

Dorian swallowed, feeling like a student again as unwilling legs carried him towards the barn, his quick pace causing his candle to flicker and go out. He dropped it somewhere on the grass, not looking back.

He stepped into the barn, wincing up at the lofted ceiling and half expecting a rat to fall on his shoulder. However, although the barn was quite definitively a barn, it seemed to not be one of the filthier ones. And it was… warm. The chill left Dorian’s skin as he stepped inside, into the heat from the brazier and the bodies of several hard working horses, asleep in their stables. To keep it this warm, Blackwall must have fires burning in here all the time, carefully tended lest the whole place burn down. It must take a lot of work, and the man didn’t seem that troubled by the cold. He must have a reason for keeping the place so cozy.

Blackwall was tending the fire as Dorian approached. Dorian let out a breath as he looked the man over. Just as rugged, scruffy, and unkempt as he remembered. He crossed his arms and leaned against a splintering wooden wall, letting his expression settle into something casual. 

Blackwall was ignoring him, placing logs into the brazier with careful precision, gloved hands maneuvering the wood until he was satisfied. He sat back in the low, wooden seat near his workbench and sighed.

“Well. Don’t you look busy,” Dorian remarked.

Blackwall didn’t look up, replying with a huff. “Is there a reason you came here?”

Dorian raised his eyebrows. “Gracing you with my charming presence isn’t reason enough?”

“I know that you and I are as much alike as a palace and a burnt-out shack,” Blackwall rumbled, still tending the fire. “Perhaps you came here so that we could talk, maybe get to know each other better. I’ve no idea how long this Inquisition is going to last, and I’d prefer not to have enemies here – especially not ones I have to travel with.” His stormy eyes finally found Dorian’s. “Although, if that’s indeed why you’re here, you could have at least brought a drink.”

The wry smirk faded from Dorian’s face. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t that. 

Blackwall noticed, and his mustache twitched into a smile. Dorian felt himself scowl.

“Either that, or you’re here to seduce me.” Blackwall stated bluntly, leaning forward in his seat to adjust a log on the fire, sending a shower of sparks between them.

A flush crept into Dorian’s cheeks, but he managed a scandalized gasp. “Why, I never!”

Blackwall chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. “My mistake, then.”

“I mean, _me?_ Seduce _you?”_ Dorian probably should have left it there, but he could never resist pushing. “Well, I’d certainly be the best you ever had, but I don’t go around dropping trow for every bearded face with a scar. I have standards.” 

Blackwall glowered. “Standards, huh?”

“Look it up sometime. I’m sure a book can tell you what it means.”

“Uh-huh.” Blackwall leaned back in his seat. “So tell me, _Prince Standards,_ why are you here?”

It was the most predictable question he could have gotten, and yet Dorian’s mouth went dry. He swallowed, heart pounding as precious seconds stretched out without a single word leaving his lips.

Blackwall’s scowl deepened. Or maybe it was a grin. It was hard to tell under all that beard. “ … You’re not nearly as fancy as you pretend to be, mage.”

Dorian felt his cheeks heat. The dream was too fresh in his mind, the phantom fingers harsh on his waist, Blackwall’s voice on his neck.

Dorian’s heart pounded. His eyes flicked away from Blackwall’s, dropping to the floor. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking, coming here. The silence stretched, and Dorian forced himself to look at Blackwall, eyes meeting his with guilt and awkwardness and confusion and arousal. Blackwall’s eyes were dark again, glinting in the light of the fire, and it occurred to Dorian that not every corner of Thedas was particularly fond of men who slept with other men. Especially not when said men were perceived to be making advances. 

Dorian nearly flinched when Blackwall stood up. He may have gravely misjudged this encounter. Blackwall was a massive man, and they were alone. Dorian swallowed, his breathing suddenly tight. If the man tried _anything,_ he’d get a face full of frost magic.

Instead of cursing or throwing a blow or anything violent, Blackwall just laughed, and not the kind of laugh that said violence was imminent. A relaxed, surprised laugh.

“You _are_ here to seduce me, aren’t you?” Blackwall was standing now, his thick legs planted firmly against the patchy dirt-and-wood floor, his thumbs looped in his belt. “I’ll be. I’ve caught the eye of a fancy Tevinter flower. Didn’t think I’d see the day.”

Dorian managed a dismissive huff, but his body relaxed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You want a roll in the hay with _me!_ An uncivilized brute!” Blackwall laughed again, deep and loud, and Dorian felt his face heating more and his pants getting tighter. 

“Don’t forget ‘unkempt,’” he snapped.

“Oh, this is _too_ good.” Blackwall crossed his arms, chuckling. “Go on, I want to hear you say it. Does the spoiled prince secretly want to get ravished and fucked by the rough, dirty commoner?”

Dorian swallowed hard, and his cock throbbed in his pants. Blackwall’s gaze dropped, and too late Dorian realized just how obvious his arousal was.

“ … I’ll take that as a yes,” Blackwall murmured with a smile. His eyes flicked up to Dorian’s again. “Say. It.”

“Y-yes.” The word fell from Dorian’s lips reflexively, dripping with need and obedience. If his face got any hotter he was going to cast a fire spell by mistake.

“Mmm.” Blackwall cocked a thick eyebrow and stepped over to Dorian in three long, heavy strides. He stopped mere feet away, looking Dorian over like he was a chunk of meat.

Dorian’s heart pounded in his ears. Words forced themselves through his lips. “D-didn’t peg you for the type, scowls. Figured you had eyes for women.”

“Oh no no no, don’t talk like that.” Blackwall leaned closer, placing one massive, gloved hand on the wooden wall of the barn and trapping Dorian against it. “Don’t suddenly act like you’re not good enough for me. You’re the pretty, perfect, palace boy, and I’m just some hungry brute who’s about to get a slice of the finest cake he’s ever tasted.” 

Dorian’s smart comebacks dried up and his knees nearly buckled. Blackwall’s gloved hand pressed against Dorian’s chest, rumpling over the leather belts of his clothes as it slid down lustfully. Dorian couldn’t move, panting, biting back the outrageously undignified things that were threatening to spill from his lips.

“The watchword is ‘petit-alms,’” Blackwall said suddenly.

Dorian blinked, trying to clear his head. “Sorry?”

“Watchword. Petit-alms.” Blackwall leaned closer, close enough that Dorian could feel the man’s hot breath. “You know, the thing you shout if you want me to stop.”

Dorian licked his lips. “O-oh. Right.”

“You must know what a watchword is. You look like you enjoy letting big, brutish men fuck you rough on a regular basis.”

When Blackwall’s glove pressed between his legs, grabbing him, Dorian couldn’t hold back a startled, needy gasp.

“And what’s this here?” Blackwall squeezed and Dorian’s eyes rolled. “So damn eager to give me what I want, aren’t you?”

“Ah – ” Dorian choked out another gasp as Blackwall moved and grabbed his rump instead, squeezing lustfully. It was crude and rough and disrespectful, and it made his cock twitch.

“Heh, _that’s_ never known a day of work, has it?” Blackwall squeezed again, giving Dorian’s ass a slow knead. “All soft and plump and accustomed to velvet seats, huh? Well, I guess it’s never known a day of work unless you count the work you do on your back, hm?”

Dorian was panting, his knees week. Blackwall had him cornered against the wall of this ragged, filthy barn, no one around to see or hear, nothing to stop him from doing whatever he wanted except –

… Well, except the watchword. But there was no way Dorian would be using that if things kept feeling this good.

Blackwall gave Dorian’s ass one more squeeze before his gloved hand shot up like a striking snake and clasped around Dorian’s throat. Dorian’s heart thundered in his chest, rapid and panicked, his breath coming short as Blackwall’s hand squeezed threateningly.

The man made a noise, low and pleased. 

“All alone in a barn with some lowborn thug,” Blackwall drawled. “What would _daddy_ say?”

Dorian very nearly came in his very expensive pants.

For just a moment, Blackwall hesitated. “ … If you want me to stop,” he grunted, “you should say so.” 

Dorian shook his head emphatically, as much as he could with Blackwall’s hand around his throat.

“Let’s try this again.” Blackwall huffed out a tense breath. “If you’d like to get your pretty ass fucked in a barn like a whore, I need you to say so. If not, I’m stopping.”

A little scrap of wit found its way to the forefront of Dorian’s mind. “For consent purposes, or just to see my lovely lips form the words?” he asked with a shaky smile.

Blackwall chuckled. “Can’t it be both?”

“ … Very well.” Dorian swallowed, his smirk melting. “I’d… like to… ” Blackwall’s gloved fingers squeezed his throat again and he whimpered. “ … I-I’d like to get my pretty ass fucked in a barn like a whore.”

Blackwall smiled. “Knew you did.” He let his hand slip off of Dorian’s throat, giving his cheek a light slap. “Get upstairs. Take off those ridiculous clothes.”

Dorian shuddered and gave a frantic nod. Blackwall stepped back, and Dorian bolted past him towards the stairs.

—-

He reached the top of the stairs huffing, knees wobbly, heart racing. His cheek was still tingling lightly from Blackwall’s gloved hand, and he was harder than he’d been in months.  
__  
This was actually happening.  
  
Dorian swallowed and began undressing, the complex choreography of undoing each buckle and untying each knot. Distantly, he registered that the warmth from the brazier downstairs had accumulated up here in the loft, keeping the chill of the mountain at bay. And he was glad for it, because he was about to be stark naked and probably bent over the nearest supply crate – Dorian swallowed and rushed his movements, fearing that he was taking too long, that Blackwall might climb the stairs and scold him for his slowness.

… What might the scolding entail, though? More filthy names? Another hand across his cheek? It made Dorian hesitate halfway through a buckle, pondering the strip of leather. Maybe he _should_ take his time.

There was noise coming from downstairs, objects being moved and heavy footsteps thumping. Dorian conjured up an image of Blackwall’s scowling face and his spine tensed. He stripped away the collection of straps that he called a shirt, throwing it haphazardly against a bale of hay, sitting down on a box and working next on his boots. He kicked them off, unbuckled his pants and was about to yank them down when a flash of purple caught his eye.

… Shit. 

A foot fell ominously against the lowest step and Dorian felt his fingers flutter desperately, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull down his pants. _Fuck._ He’d been feeling pretty after his bath, feeling fresh and clean and glad to be away from the Emerald Graves, and he’d decided to celebrate. Celebrate with something made of finest purple satin and ornate Orlesian lace, made by the finest craftsmanship of Val Royeaux.

His hard cock was tucked away in that purple satin right now. And the footsteps were almost at the top of the stairs.

Blackwall’s boots thumped on the last step, slow and deliberate. His eyes found Dorian instantly, roaming from his panicked face down his bare chest to his pants. 

“ … Now I could have sworn,” he began, closing the distance between them in a few slow strides, his heavy boots thumping on the creaky boards, “that I told you to take off those ridiculous clothes.”

Dorian swallowed. Slowly, he grabbed his open pants and pulled them down, holding eye contact with the Warden. He didn’t want to miss a single twitch.

The pants dropped, pooling in a leather heap around Dorian’s feet. He straightened up and folded his toned arms across his chest, delighted that a smirk came to him so easily.

“Are you quite certain you want _all_ of my ridiculous clothes off?”

The impeccable air of rough, uncultured dominance that Blackwall seemed to exude faltered, and he looked genuinely startled. For a moment, all he seemed capable of doing was staring at the soft, shimmery satin that clung to Dorian’s hips, dark lace brushing his thighs. Then Blackwall laughed, low and deep, a sound Dorian was starting to grow fond of.

“When you said you came here to seduce me,” he chuckled, his voice softer. “I had no idea you were this dedicated.”

Dorian huffed, turning up his nose. “Goodness, don’t be absurd. This was all for _me._ You’re just lucky enough to be getting a glimpse.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Blackwall grabbed Dorian’s face in one rough, gloved hand. “It’s not every day a man like me gets to make the son of a wealthy magister his slut.”

Dorian’s smirk evaporated, his heart skipping. Blackwall’s leather glove was rough against his freshly-washed face.

“Go on, daddy’s boy,” Blackwall taunted. “There’s a perfectly good hay bale right there.”

Dorian snorted, glaring at the man. “A perfectly scratchy hay bale!”

Blackwall’s scowl darkened. He let go of Dorian’s jaw and grabbed his hair instead, a rough fistful that completely destroyed the perfect order Dorian had combed it into.

“I wasn’t asking.”

Blackwall shoved, and before Dorian could think he was thrown over the nearest bale of hay with a yelp, a rough hand still fisted in his hair, straw prickling his bare body. His bare feet struggled for purchase on the wooden floor as he felt Blackwall’s fully-clothed body press up behind him, between his open legs, pinning him in place.

And… Dorian swallowed hard, his knees going wobbly. Judging by the hot bulge pressing against his ass, Blackwall was… not a small man.

“Brute,” he cursed breathlessly.

Blackwall chuckled. With one gloved fist still in Dorian’s hair, his free hand wandered to the mage’s rump, stroking over the satiny purple undergarment. He gave Dorian’s ass a condescending pat, just shy of a slap. “You’re damn right I am.”

Dorian bit his lip and hissed out a curse as Blackwall grabbed his smallclothes and yanked them down, exposing him. Then Blackwall’s gloved hand was on his bare ass, squeezing, spreading him, and Dorian had to bite down a whimper.

Blackwall whistled under his breath as he teased his thumb over Dorian’s hole, crude leather brushing over his sensitive skin. “Now that’s just impressive. Not a hair in sight. You must shave by the hour, or else you’re part elf.” He tsked in genuine awe. “I just wouldn’t have the patience for that.”

Dorian rested his cheek against the hay bale and sighed, his eyes rolling in spite of himself. “ … It’s a spell.”

“ … They make spells for that? I’ll be.”

“Fasta Vass, Blackwall, remind me to catch you up on the entirety of civilization sometime.”

“Ha.” Blackwall let go of Dorian’s hair, and there was the sound of a cork being removed from a bottle. A smell wafted through the barn, rich and piney, familiar. “I think you prefer me rough and uncultured.”

Dorian hissed in surprise and his spine arched as he felt something oily and smooth tease against his hole. Blackwall’s hand was back in his hair, forcing his face down into the hay as – oh fuck – he pressed his _gloved_ finger into Dorian’s waiting hole.

“Ah – ” Dorian couldn’t manage any noise beyond a shocked gasp as the finger pressed slowly deeper into him. The leather was softened and slicked by oil, gliding into him easily, but – An image flashed through his mind, what he looked like right now, bent over a bale of hay with his fancy underclothes pulled down and one thick, leather-gloved finger sinking into his ass.

Fuck.

“You’re just the prettiest palace flower, aren’t you?” Blackwall taunted. He eased his finger in deeper and Dorian’s eyes rolled. “Soft and smooth and ready to be taken.”

“Fasta Vass – ” Dorian could barely get words out as Blackwall slowly fingered him. He realized, abruptly, where he had smelled that piney oily scent before before – on the saddles the horses of the Inquisition wore. Blackwall was opening him with _saddle oil._

He bit out breathless words through his clenched teeth. “Filthy fucking commoner.”

“Mmm.” Blackwall made a hungry noise, pushing his finger in deep, until his gloved fist was pressed against Dorian’s ass. He started dragging it back out slowly. “Filthy lucky commoner is what I am.”

“Nnhh – ” In spite of himself, Dorian’s hips rolled once, pressing back against the thickness of Blackwall’s finger. The Warden laughed and dragged his finger out, leaving Dorian empty and snarling under his breath against the hay.

“What’s this? Is the good little magister’s son a _slut?”_

“Not for dirty peasants!” Dorian snapped.

Blackwall’s gloved hand slapped against his ass, and Dorian groaned into the hay bale. Blackwall’s fingers were back, two of them this time, teasing around his slicked hole.

“Go on, prince. Show me what a slut you are.”

Dorian panted, breathing in the musty smell of the hay and the sharp perfume of saddle oil. He struggled for some scrap of composure. “A-as if I – nnhh – want your dirty fingers – ”

“Well, if you don’t want them… ” Blackwall’s fingers nudged at his hole, nearly pressing in, before pulling back just far enough that Dorian could barely feel the brush of oil-slick leather against his skin. “You won’t mind if I leave you here like – ”

Dorian let out a thin, frantic noise of protest and pressed his hips back compulsively, sinking down onto Blackwall’s fingers. His face heated as the man laughed and started to pump them in and out, working him open. Blackwall’s fingers were thick, a delicious stretch.

“Eager slut can’t wait.”

Dorian groaned into the hay as Blackwall’s fingered him open, slow and torturous, keeping an aggressive hand in his hair the whole time. He was nearly moaning with need by the time Blackwall slipped them out, leaving him slick and loose and ready.

“Mmm… ” Blackwall’s hand slapped lightly against his ass. “Oh, I’m going to _use_ that.”

“F – fuck – ” The curse came out as a choked whisper. Blackwall’s gloved hands grabbed Dorian’s hips suddenly, yanking him back against a solid, powerful body, and a moan spilled out of him. “Oh sh-shit – ”

He could feel the Warden’s arousal pressing against his ass, straining against the rough leather that Blackwall wore, big and hot and hungry. 

Blackwall scoffed. “Spoiled little boy begging to get rutted like a dog,” he taunted. “All that political weight you throw around isn’t going to do you much good here, is it?”

“Ah – ” There was a rustle, and words failed Dorian as he felt something heavy – hot – _hard_ fall against his ass.

“If only your magister daddy could see you now. Naked in a barn with your legs spread for some commoner.”

He guided his cock down, pressing it against Dorian’s hole, pushing – Dorian gasped and grabbed at the hay bale as it breached him, thick and demanding, making his hole stretch and his dick throb.

Blackwall’s hands spread over Dorian’s ass, squeezing as he pushed inside. “Speak up, spoiled slut. What would _daddy_ think?”

A jab of mortification shot through Dorian’s gut, but somehow the wrongness of it only made him harder. He gasped, pushing his hips back as Blackwall gave a shallow thrust, that thick cock stretching him open and pumping inside him.

“Well?”

“Vishante Kaffas – ” The curses trailed off into a moan and Dorian’s eyes fluttered closed as Blackwall’s hips bumped against his ass, still fully clothed. “Oh Fasta Vass _fuck… ”_

“Come on, prince.” Blackwall’s hand fisted in Dorian’s hair, yanking his head back, forcing his spine to arch. Dorian could feel a beard tickling his neck, feel hot, hungry breath in his ear. “Who’s your _real_ daddy?”

“Blackwall – ” The man’s name slipped from Dorian’s parted lips as a desperate whine. The Warden’s gloved hands were grabbing him roughly, pinning him in place while he was fucked.

“Tell me, slut, is it better getting fucked by fancy nobles on silk sheets, or hard and filthy in a barn by some rough brute?”

Dorian moaned shamelessly, not even able to pretend he didn’t want it anymore. “Fasta Vass, better, this is better – ”

Blackwall’s fingers were digging into his hips, just like they had in his dream, pinning him in place while he was pounded. His rigid, leaking cock was still wrapped in purple satin, and thank Andraste, because each hard thrust pressed him against the hay bale, only that soft cloth separating him from the harsh material. As it was, he could feel the prickles of hay through his undergarment, soft enough to be comfortable but rough enough to remind him just where he was getting fucked.

“Since you like it so much, why don’t you come down here and – nnhh –spread your royal legs for me all the time?” Blackwall groaned, low and predatory, pulling Dorian back hard onto his cock. “I could get used to this, having my own royal fucktoy. Leave you sore and dripping – ”

Dorian bit his lip hard to keep from screaming as he came hard, hot and wet and soaking his fancy Orlesian satin. He shuddered against the hay bale, moaning in dizzy bliss as Blackwall’s thrusts slowed and finally stilled. The hand in his hair relaxed, releasing him and giving his mussed-up hair a gentle pet before stroking down his back.

“Do you need me to stop here?” Blackwall murmured gently.

Dorian’s half-lidded eyes snapped open. He threw a scowl over his shoulder. “Oh no no no, don’t you start getting all proper on me now.” He pushed his hips back against the man’s dick, and Blackwall shuddered. “What was it you said? Sore and dripping?”

Blackwall growled, fingers tightening against Dorian’s hips to the point of bruising, pulling out and then slamming back in with spine curling force. Dorian gasped at the ferocity of the thrust and his dick gave an interested twitch, spent inside his satin panties and covered in come. The second hard thrust had Dorian’s legs wobbling, and had him awestruck at how much the man must have been holding back before. He let out a throaty groan, panting as Blackwall fucked him in steady strokes.

“What’s the matter?” Dorian threw over his shoulder. He clenched around Blackwall’s shaft, pleased when the man let out a low snarl. “Can’t come inside the Magister’s son? Don’t want to dirty the fine art?”

“I’ll have no problem dirtying you,” Blackwall shot back.

Dorian chewed his lip on an eager grin. Each hard thrust punched another gasp out of him, but it didn’t stop him from snarling out taunts between breaths. “If you’re – ah – having trouble keeping it up, I’m sure I have a little spell that’ll – nnhh – fix you right up… that is, if you aren’t – ah –opposed to a bit of blood magic.”

Dorian yelped as powerful, gloved hands grabbed his arms and yanked him half-upright, his back arched, his ass pressed against Blackwall’s hips, the man’s hot breath on his neck.

“That smart mouth of yours,” Blackwall growled warningly. “You’re like a new pup barking at anything that moves.” 

He shoved Dorian down against the hay bale again, wrenching the man’s arms behind his back, pinning his wrists there. Dorian pulled once, reflexively, and gasped under the next thrust as he realized he couldn’t pull away from Blackwall’s hold.

“No matter, whelp. I’m sure I can break you.” 

Dorian barely had time to catch a breath before Blackwall was pounding him, making his whole body shudder and squirm. Every curse word he knew dropped from his lips – half common, half Tevene, a few elven words he had picked up from the housekeeper, something Iron Bull had once said – and Dorian’s arms strained in Blackwall’s powerful hold as he took each rough thrust.

“Can’t decide – nnf – if I want to come all over that pretty ass or deep inside it,” Blackwall mused, prompting another moan from the man under him. He dragged his hips back with a groan, pulling inch after inch from Dorian’s sore body. “But you – nnh – need to be marked, don’t you?”

The first hot splash hit his insides before Blackwall had pulled all the way out. Dorian gasped against the hay bale as the second shot coated his sore, pink hole, dripping down his thighs. He shuddered, moaning, and was just about to go limp in Blackwall’s hold when the man pushed back inside him, thick and hot and slippery. Dorian made a noise like a whine as he felt more hot wetness spilling inside him, filling him up until it leaked out. 

Dorian caught his breath against the bale of hay, listening to Blackwall panting behind him. He shuddered as he realized then that he was coated in Blackwall.

Words tried to push through his breathless panting. “Filthy br– ”

“You might want to find a mirror before you decide which one of us is filthy, ‘Vint.” Blackwall teased, panting as much as he was.

Dorian managed a breathless laugh. He chewed his lip and rolled his hips back with a satisfied groan, pressing against the rough leather of Blackwall’s clothes. He could still feel the man’s thick cock inside him, slick and messy, filling him up. Blackwall shuddered one more time, let out a long huff, and patted Dorian’s rump.

“You ok?” he asked gently.

Dorian pushed himself up with his arms, arching his back and stretching with a long, pleased sigh. He felt Blackwall shiver at the sudden squeeze, and allowed himself an exhausted smirk. 

“I feel positively refreshed,” he replied, shooting a look over his shoulder.

Blackwall scowled. “ … Good to see you’re as insufferable as ever.”

“And you’re still a barn rat who wouldn’t know a nice Agreggio Pavali if it bit him on the ass,” Dorian shot back. He bit his lip as he dragged himself off the man’s cock, his knees wobbling at the sensation. “Nnnh… ah – ”

A hot, slickness dripped down Dorian’s thigh as he pulled himself off, and for a moment his smirk was lost in a breathless blush.

“ … Those fancy clothes of yours might need a good washing,” Blackwall remarked, chuckling.

Dorian stood up on wobbly legs, slightly relieved when Blackwall grabbed his shoulder to support him. He frowned down at the come-soaked satin clinging to his cock and thighs. Gingerly, wincing, he stepped out of them and held up the soaking fabric for inspection.

“ … I believe you owe me a shopping trip in Val Royeaux,” Dorian grunted.

Blackwall laughed loudly. “Not even for you, Dorian.” He took the sodden underclothes in one gloved hand. “ … But if you don’t want these, I think I’m going to keep them.”

“Why Blackwall, you’re not half as wholesome as you pretend to be,” Dorian taunted. He crossed his arms over his bare chest, smiling. “Where’s that chivalrous Warden I came to see?”

The playfulness faded from Blackwall’s eyes. He moved his gloved hand from Dorian’s shoulder to his jaw, cupping his face gently. “Right here.”

Blackwall leaned in, and Dorian’s smirk wavered just before the man’s lips met his. It was slow and gentle, none of the roughness from before, and Dorian found himself returning it with a soft, relaxed breath. The relief of having a damn good orgasm was settling into his limbs, driving away the coiled tension that had been building inside him since this whole crazy thing started.

“Thank you,” he whispered when Blackwall pulled away.

Blackwall nodded and clapped Dorian on the shoulder. “I can recognize a man who needs a good fucking. Happy to oblige.”

Dorian couldn’t hold back a snort. He tried to disguise it as a scowl.

“Uncultured brute,” he shot.

“Spoiled brat.” Blackwall snickered and turned away, his boots stomping across the wood as he walked towards the stairs. The lacy purple satin dangled from his gloved hand. “Get dressed. I’ve got a fire to check on.”

—-

As the heat of sex left his body, Dorian was happy to be back in his clothes, warm though the barn was. The leather of his pants felt a little odd brushing against him with no smallclothes, but he supposed that was a small price to pay.

Blackwall sat by the fire, stoking the embers back to life and putting more logs on, as Dorian descended the stairs.

“See you tomorrow night,” Blackwall stated.

“Perhaps you could shower before then,” Dorian shot back. Blackwall’s laugh rumbled, and Dorian walked away with a smirk, making sure each step swayed through his hips.

“You’ll pay for that,” Blackwall called, and Dorian grinned into the darkness as he walked towards his quarters.

“I certainly hope so,” he murmured.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you liked. Come over to tumblr to chat about it!  
> Me: amatuskadanvhenan.tumblr.com  
> Wren: wrenseroticlibrary.tumblr.com


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